I'm not sure if I'm jumping the gun, but I thought I'd do this assignment. Let me know if it is too long. I’ve always been a champion of people. I was the kid who befriended the girl in kindergarten when others made fun of her. I was the one who boycotted my third-grade class when a teacher was cruel to a student. I fell in love with the hippie movement—despite being born eighteen years too late—and carried its values of justice, compassion, and collective care with me wherever I went. That same longing for freedom and authenticity led me to study Romantic literature in college, a movement devoted to living passionately, truthfully, and in relationship with the inner world. Those ideals weren’t academic to me—I wanted to live them. That devotion became a throughline. I joined VISTA to support underserved youth, spent years working with children, and later chose massage therapy to help people care for themselves more fully so they could care for others more sustainably. I’ve always believed everyone deserves to be seen, heard, and recognized. It just took me longer to demand that same consideration for myself. I was raised in a culture shaped by hierarchy—where someone else’s voice always mattered more. The conditioning was subtle and constant, and while I was independent by nature, a quiet part of me absorbed the belief that I had to earn my worth in order to be loved. That belief followed me into the relationship that woke me up. I thought I’d found the love of my life. I was instantly drawn to him, and when we met, I heard a quiet inner whisper telling me I would marry him. On the surface, he was my kind of person. Beneath it, he believed I was beneath him—and, painfully, a silent part of me believed it too. He was critical of me, but he was even more critical of himself. He feared closeness, carried deep insecurity in relationships and work, and those fears often surfaced as criticism. Because I had learned to shapeshift for approval, I turned myself inside out trying to love him enough to make him feel whole.